


Dulcis Domus Dulcis

by Sharpshoooter



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hannibal is low-key a cannibal, I don't know how else to tag this, M/M, Neighbors AU, Pining, Reposting because of technical issues, Two pretty men with kids have crushes on one another
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 04:01:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5524661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharpshoooter/pseuds/Sharpshoooter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“They’ve noticed a change in me – Abigail even caught me right after a night terror and told me I should stop.”</i>
</p><p>  <i>“Then why don’t you?”</i></p><p>  <i>“It’s not that simple.”</i> </p><p>  <i>“It could be.”</i></p><p>  <i>“Shouldn’t you be encouraging me to keep at it? That’s what Jack would want you to do,” Will mutters, dragging his teeth over his bottom lip.</i></p><p>  <i>“Jack would chain you up in the offices of the BAU if he thought it would help people, Will. But it isn’t my job to help Jack help people, it’s my job to help <b>you</b>.”</i></p><p> <br/>Will Graham’s new neighbor is enthralling, mysterious, and shockingly eloquent. Too bad he’s also a psychiatrist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dulcis Domus Dulcis

**Author's Note:**

> Happy holidays, everyone! Here's my Hannigram Holiday Exchange story! I have to say, I’ve been so eager to post this - writing this fluff piece has really been a fun and wild ride. It’s been lovely and I’ve just had a blast. I hope you enjoy! Sending lots of love and wine your way!
> 
> To: Tumblr user finally-hannigramiscanon  
> From: Your friendly neighborhood trash can.
> 
> Also, this work isn't beta'd, so all mistakes are mine.

Hello, and thank you for joining me to read this splendid story. What is to follow is a tale of two men – two men who happen to be what some might call ‘soulmates’. I personally don’t believe in the idea of two people being destined to love one another, but this tale just might convince me. For now, though, let me introduce you to half of our little pairing. His name is Will Graham.

Will Graham is a particularly introverted man. He’s never been good at relationships. The closest thing to a lover he’s ever had would be one Molly Foster. However, what they had cannot accurately be called love. It was more of a… mutually-agreeable arrangement to the means of helping one another to cope with life. The relationship led to the conception and birth of a dark-haired child. A beautiful and fiercely loved baby girl. After her birth, Molly and Will decided that they’d like to test out a more conventional relationship. They moved into a home together and cared for their darling daughter.

During this time, Molly wasn’t particularly thrilled with where her choices had led her, but she had no regrets. After all, how could she regret having such a wonderful daughter with her brilliant boyfriend? Really, it wasn’t a horrible life by any means, but she had envisioned a life of adventure – a life where she saw the world and everything it had to offer her.

But when Molly became pregnant with their second child, she knew she’d made her decision. They had another daughter, a beautiful girl who looked so much like Will that it brought Molly to tears. She can’t regret either of her children, and she can’t regret the next decision she made.

“I’m not built for motherhood, Will,” she told him. Will didn’t look surprised, just resigned.

“I figured. I don’t- I can’t tell you what you can and can’t do.”

“You aren’t… angry?” she whispers, swallowing the lump in her throat.

“I’m… I’m certainly not happy, but I’m not going to get mad at you for doing what’s best for you.” She looks uncertain, frightened, and Will plasters a false smile on his face. “Go, Molly. I can take care of them.”

And that’s what she did. She left him the house, packed her bags, and was gone the next morning. Will keeps in touch with her still, and the girls visit their mother every summer. I, as your wonderful narrator, know you must be absolutely aching to get on with the story by now. Bear with me, my dear reader. We are almost there.

===

But first, our mise en scène:

A farmhouse in Wolf Trap, VA. In it resides a family composed of three humans and 4 dogs. The household is almost always one filled with good-natured familial bickering and exasperated sighing. Will Graham wouldn’t have it any other way. Sure, he does get frustrated at having to single-handedly raise two girls on his own. However, he loves his life and his daughters and fatherhood. It’s good for him, he thinks. This particular day, he sits out on the porch with his youngest child, Abigail.

The house across from the Graham residence has been empty since Abigail had turned 12 the year before. Previously occupied by an elderly woman and her hoard of feline friends, Will hadn’t been surprised when she was eventually evicted from the property. Abigail had been surprised and even a tad disappointed when she lost the only neighbor they had for miles around. Abigail has since made it a habit of sitting vigil over the house while she eats lunch.

“I hate seeing it empty,” she comments around a mouthful of her grilled cheese and tomato sandwich as she sits on the porch railing, kicking her legs back and forth.

Marissa, 15 years old and on the verge of womanhood, doesn’t need much excuse to rile up her baby sister. “Why does it matter to you?” she asks, peeking out from behind the screen door.

“Because it does.”

“If she didn’t move out, she probably would’ve died in that house.”

“Marissa…” Will warns lowly, bending down with a pot of dogfood at he stares at his daughter over the top of his glasses. Two of the pups come sniffling curiously as the others continue wrestling in the grass.

“What? I’m just saying.”

“Shut up,” Abigail snaps, eyebrows scrunching in anger. Marissa only rolls her eyes and returns her attention to her phone, disappearing back into the living room. Abigail, small for her age but full of more personality and spunk than Will ever thought would be possible, doesn’t allow her feelings to be invalidated. Over the course of time that passes while the house remains empty, she watches from the porch as prospective owners come and go like dandelion seeds. Eventually, the initial influx of viewers begins to wane until the young girl eventually stops spending her free time in front of the house. Instead, she migrates to the living room and piles up with the dogs to watch cartoons.

Will takes to sitting with her.

===

“Someone’s going to move in one day, dad,” Abigail mutters one overcast morning. Will glances up from his laptop, a document with the outline to his next lecture open on the screen. Abbi’s already beginning to get slow from her sleepiness and her chin rests atop Chester’s spine. The rest of the dogs frame her in where she lays across the floor.

“Sure,” Will agrees, fingers returning to the keyboard.

===

Eventually, Abigail takes to cultivating flowers around the crooked mailbox that once belonged to one 77 year-old Mabel Thompson. Marissa sends her father looks of ‘please-make-it-stop’ over her little sister’s head. Will gives her a pointed look in return before handing her a trowel from his tool shelf.

“Go ahead and lend a hand,” he tells her with a look that leaves no room for argument. With a dramatic sigh, she grabs the trowel and stomps out to assist her baby sister. The pleasantly surprised “Issy!” from Abigail is worth having to face the older girl’s ire later.

===

Summer soon turns into autumn and school takes the girls from the house almost daily, leaving Will with some time to get back to the motor he’s been neglecting to fix. When the girls get home tired, hungry, and drowning in homework, Will sets the motor aside to cut up apples for the girls and go over their work with them. For some time, it’s even peaceful.

That is, until the For Sale sign across the way suddenly disappears one chilly morning. “What do you think it means?” Abigail asks, reflections of light painting stars in her eyes as she bounces up and down on her heels. Will, happy to see his daughter happy, attempts to tread lightly.

“I think – stay still, honey, I don’t want to pull your hair – I think that we should keep an open mind. Maybe we’ll be seeing some new faces, but maybe we won’t,” he says, gently pulling the bristles of a wooden brush through her hair. “Don’t be too disappointed if the house stays empty, okay?”

Abigail pouts. “They’ll come,” she says, face set in determination, as if all it takes is sheer willpower for the house to be occupied once more. Will doesn’t have to worry about her disappointment for long.

===

Two days later while Will is sat at the dining room table to write up another upcoming lecture, the onslaught of rain providing a pleasant backtrack, he hears a low rumble that makes him lift his head to look out the window. For a moment he dismisses it as a clap of thunder and lowers his head once more. Then, from the corner of his eye, he catches a wide moving truck clambering down the road. It’s a wide thing belonging to a moving company, a family name written across the side in spiraling cursive.

“Abbi’s gonna be so angry she wasn’t here for this, Winston,” Will says. The creature in question tilts his head to the side as he gazes up at his owner from under the table. Will gives him a little pat on the head before pushing his chair out and standing. Winston’s claws click against the floor as he cheerily follows on his owner’s heels, tail swishing behind him. Will goes and peeks out the front window in his living room, spots a very expensive-looking black car at the top of the driveway. Then out of his peripherals he catches a man just climbing out of the driver’s seat of the truck. The man, apparently the Grahams’ new neighbor, turns quickly, futilely attempting to stay dry as he jogs around and disappears behind the passenger side door only to reappear with a toddler in his arms. The child – too young to tell if it’s a boy or a girl from this distance – windmills their arms when they’re pulled out into the rain, a very discontented look on an adorably chubby face.

Will sighs, wishing his girls were home from school as he grabs his jacket off a chair and shrugs it on, flipping the hood onto his head. Winston whines as his owner pushes the front door open, his paws scrubbing at the rug beneath him. “Stay,” Will orders, taking a deep breath before pushing out into the torrential downpour. “Damn this weather,” Will grumbles under his breath as he’s pelted by fat drops of water. The stranger seems to spot Will just as he’s reached the middle of the street, so the professor offers a tight smile as he makes his way up to them. The truck is parked just on the curb, so it thankfully doesn’t take too long to reach the pair.

“Hello,” the man chirps when Will reaches him. By then, the three of them are sopping wet and itching to get warm and dry.

“Hey,” Will greets, giving the toddler – a girl, he thinks – a grin and cheerful wave. “Listen, I was just gonna offer a glass of bourbon and leave you alone, but this rain’s coming down pretty hard and I don’t imagine you’re wanting to unpack that truck just yet. If you want to wait it out, my house is already full of furniture and the heater’s up on full blast.”

The stranger - an older man with an air of sophistication that for some reason reminds Will of a Bond villain - seems to consider his offer. The toddler in his arms babbles, eyes watering with tears of frustration.

“You really don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Will adds hastily. “I just thought maybe-“

“We’ll go.”

Alrighty then. Will offers a tight smile, glancing away.

The walk back to the house is much more brisk, both men (plus toddler) eager to duck out of the storm. Will pulls the door open and lets the man go ahead. Jackets are immediately peeled off and hanged up to dry, including the little one’s raincoat. Claire and Snorkel both try to sniff at the unexpected guest but Will is quick to shoo them away. “Sorry about the dogs. Should’ve warned you. They’re nice, just not used to company.” He winces. Really didn’t need to add that last detail, Graham.

“No apology needed. I should thank you for inviting us in. It was very kind of you,” the man says, managing to look entirely too put together while holding a small child – definitely a girl - on the verge of a tantrum. “I didn’t get your name.”

“Will. If you want to, you can put the television on for her while I get us some drinks. Water or bourbon…?”

“Hannibal. And a finger of bourbon would be delightful.”

Will finds himself ducking his head to hide a smile as he goes to the kitchen and makes a beeline for the alcohol cupboard. When he returns to the living room, two glasses in hand, Hannibal has set his daughter on the couch and switched the TV to a colorful cartoon with some sort of talking cat/dog/bunny creature. Hannibal himself has taken to browsing Will’s bookcase, a finger gliding over the spines as he peruses.

“Here you go,” Will says, holding out one of the lowballs. Hannibal takes it with a barely-there smile. Attempting to avoid any awkward instances of unexpected eye contact, Will glances back toward his couch to the chubby little baby sitting there, blonde hair just beginning to curl just past her ears. “How old is she?” he asks, turning to face Hannibal just as he’s raising his glass to his lips.

“Nearly a year and much more trouble than I could ever have predicted,” Hannibal answers, licking a stray droplet of amber from his lip. Will forces himself to avert his gaze. A small smile curls at his lips when he flashes back to when Issy and Abbi were each that age.

“That’s a wonderful time. After that, they tend to grow faster than we can keep up with.”

“You have a child?” Hannibal asks, sounding intrigued. He doesn’t attempt to meet Will’s eyes when he looks just over the man’s shoulder, something for which Will is grateful.

“Two. Both girls, and both troublesome and lovely in equal measure. One’s already a teenager and the other one’s catching up.”

“If you need to pick them up from school, I do not wish to keep you.”

“No, it’s okay!” Will looks over his shoulder at the clock. ‘3:07’, it reads. “The buses drop them off right by the driveway, so they’ll be fine. And they can serve as two extra sets of hands once this rain lets up,” he adds, hiding the hints of upturned lips behind his glass.

“I certainly hope the rain stops before the night is over,” Hannibal murmurs, turning to gaze out the window. The storm shows no signs of stopping any time soon.

Marissa’s bus is the first to get there, her arrival marked by the rapid pounding of her boots on the porch followed by the front door opening and slamming shut behind her. By then, both men have migrated back to the couch, empty glasses set atop the table.

“I then began my studies in psychiatry in France, where I met-” Hannibal is saying, quite animated as he weaves his tale

“I’m home!” Marissa calls out, interrupting the story as she toes off her wet rain boots and hangs her coat. Snorkel and Winston trot up to her, tails wagging and tongues lolling. “I missed you too, buddy!” she chirps, patting little Snorkel on the head before straightening up once more. Two mysterious sets of coats and shoes set by her father’s make her pause just as she’s setting her backpack down. Turning in a slow circle, Marissa catches sight of her dad and a stranger sitting with a rambunctious child tucked between them. “Hi.”

“Hello,” Hannibal greets.

“Issy, meet Dr. Hannibal Lecter, our new neighbor. Hannibal, this is Marissa, my oldest,” Will says as he stands, grunting as his bad shoulder smarts in protest of the movement.

“A pleasure to meet you.”

“You too,” Marissa responds as her father pushes back her bangs to kiss her forehead in greeting.

“You’re here earlier than usual. How was school? The book report..?”

“Aced it. I’m never reading Charles Dickens again,” she sighs with a roll of her eyes. Will chuckles, swiping droplets of rainwater from her temple.

“If you were paid for every word you wrote, you’d do the same thing.”

“…True.” She looks over Will’s shoulder at Hannibal for a moment. “Hey, are you planning on unpacking that truck today? Because I don’t think that rain’s letting up any time soon.”

Hannibal opens his mouth to answer but is interrupted when his daughter, having climbed onto his lap, reaches to tug at a stray lock of hair. Gently pushing her curious hands away, Hannibal responds. “That was rather the goal, but it seems to be looking less and less likely. I may end up prioritizing a mattress and the crib and leaving the rest for tomorrow.” Seeming to understand that her father’s attention has been diverted, the little blonde looks back and, catching sight of Marissa, grins widely and babbles happily, curling and uncurling her fist in the young woman’s direction.

Marissa visibly brightens when she finds herself the recipient of the child’s attention. “You are just precious. What’s her name?” she asks, cooing at the baby and letting her wrap a small fist around her first two fingers.

“Miriam. Looks like she’s taken a liking to you,” Hannibal says with a pleased smile. Outside, the loud sound of brakes screeching cuts through the sound of pounding rain and Will goes to the front window and peeks out.

“That would be Abigail,” he comments, moving to the front door to pull it open. Rapid footsteps approach, becoming louder until Will has to step aside as Abbi barrels in, dripping and huffing for air.

“Everything’s wet!” she exclaims, yanking off her coat and shoving off her boots by the door. Will huffs good-naturedly and locks up behind her before picking her coat up from the floor and hanging it on its hook.

“It’s called rain, genius,” Marissa mutters. Abigail sticks her tongue out, before she notices Hannibal and his daughter sitting on the couch.

“Omigod, are you our new neighbor?” she squeals, bouncing up and down on her heels as she grins at the stranger. She turns to her sister and throws her arms around the older girl, nearly causing them both to topple over. “I told you, Issy! Itoldyou itoldyou itoldyou!”

“Yeah yeah, get off me, you’re freezing,” Marissa responds, pushing chilly arms from her shoulders. “Go dry off, you’re tracking water everywhere.”

“Yes, mom,” Abigail grumbles, stomping off towards her bedroom.

“And your dirty clothes go in the hamper, not on the floor in front of it,” Will tells her retreating back. Straightening, he stretches his arms over his head with a yawn. “Where’s your homework, Issy?”

“…Would you believe me if I said Claire ate it?” she asks, a hopeful look on her face as she looks over at the cheerful beagle in question.

“I would not. Go get it.”

Grumbling, Marissa shuffles over and grabs her backpack, dragging it over to her father. “Have I told you how much I hate math? It makes no sense!”

“It does to some people,” he points out, unzipping the bag and taking out her agenda. “You’re already doing trig. I still can’t believe it.”

“The curriculum these days is much more advanced that it was in ours,” Hannibal inputs distractedly, his focus on not allowing his daughter to tumble off his lap as she wiggles around, letting out little bursts of high-pitched giggles as she does.

“Tell me about it,” Will replies, picking out Marissa’s textbook and leafing through its pages. “Did you take notes today?”

“Yeah, but I don’t know… I think I might have to take extra credit if I wanna get a good grade this semester,” she admits, frustration causing her brow to furrow. The expression on her face reminds Will, for a moment, of Molly.

“Well, that’s okay. I’m sure your teacher will be more than willing to help you out if you need it,” Will says, replacing her books and passing the bag back to her. “We’ll work on this after dinner, okay?”

“Yeah, okay, I guess,” she murmurs with a sigh, slinging the bag over her shoulder. “Be right back.” She goes to put the backpack in her bedroom, leaving just as Abigail returns, clad in her caped Wonder Woman romper and space shuttle slippers. Her father can only look amused when he catches sight of her. Abigail waves at Hannibal as she goes up to her father to hug him. “Hey, kiddo. Where’s your homework?” he asks, giving her a squeeze as she rests her forehead against his stomach.

“I did it on the bus. Can you check it later?”

“Sure thing, Abbi. Hungry?”

“Apples,” comes her short reply as she relinquishes her hold on Will.

“Anything I can get you, Hannibal?”

“I’m quite all right,” Hannibal assures merrily.

Marissa returns fresh from the shower as Will is separating apple slices into two bowls, hands damp and slightly sticky from the fruit. He silently pushes one of the bowls towards Marissa, who blinks slowly before accepting it with a soft mumble. It’s no secret to Will that his oldest daughter tends to get groggy after she’s had her shower. “Why don’t you take a nap once you’re done with that?” he proposes.

“Don’t tempt me,” Marissa replies, teeth snapping through her apple slices with ease. Will is washing his hands at the sink when he hears soft footsteps approaching. Looking up, he’s mildly surprised to see Hannibal there with Miriam in his arms, both in their jackets and boots once more.

“It is time for me to take my leave,” the man says, shifting his toddler into a more comfortable position as he speaks. “I thank you for your display of generosity.”

Will blinks slowly, eyebrows creasing in confusion while he dries his hands off with a worn out dish towel. “You’re not going to unpack the truck right now, are you? That storm’s still going pretty strong.”

Hannibal offers a look of amusement. “No worries, Will. My sister lives relatively close by. We will be lodging with her for the night.” Will gives a short nod of understanding. Still, he can’t help but feel compelled to offer his help to the man.

“Do you know what time you’re gonna start unpacking the truck?” Will asks as Miriam gives an impatient gurgle, tiny hands patting Hannibal’s jaw as if attempting to get his attention.

“Early morning, if all goes well. The sooner I am able to, the better.”

“Well, I look forward to seeing you then. Unfortunately, the girls won’t be able to help, but two sets of hands are better than one.”

“Will, there’s really no need-“

“You keep saying that. I know I don’t need to, but I’m a decent human being and I want to lend a hand. Sorry, neighbor, you’ll just have to endure my help until your house is in order.”

“You must expect that I will attempt to return the favor,” Hannibal points out.

“Good, ‘cause you’ll definitely owe me one.” Hannibal looks mildly amused as Will smirks at up at him. Will sees his new neighbor and his curmudgeonly child out and has to stop himself from laying a hand on his guest’s back under the guise of guiding him. “Drive safe, Hannibal.”

Their eyes meet. Hannibal doesn’t smile per se, but his eyes shine in an almost mischievous manner that makes Will abruptly looks away, face warming under the attention.

===

The next morning, Will gets up early to make his kids breakfast and see them off to school. Once the girls are gone, he heads to his bathroom to shower and make another futile attempt at fixing his hair. It doesn’t work. When he peeks out the window, he sees that Hannibal’s car is back at the top of the driveway.

10 minutes later, he’s heading across the street once more. The skies are much clearer now, only a few wiry wisps of white hang overhead. He doesn’t ring the doorbell for fear of waking Miriam, rapping lightly on the door with his knuckles instead. It takes a moment for Hannibal to answer.

“Hello, Will,” he greets, stepping aside to allow Will entrance. It’s a bit odd, seeing the house not covered in cats and the things (or smells) that come with them.

“Good morning, Dr. Lecter. Eager to start your day?”

“In a way,” Hannibal replies, lips turning slightly. “And I believe you will be pleased to hear that I’ve managed to hire a third pair of hands.”

“Oh?”

“I left Miriam with my sister last night, and both will be stopping by later while we work. She is quite excited to meet the man who was so incredibly obliging for my daughter and I.”

“I hope I don’t disappoint.”

“I’ve a feeling that isn’t something you need to worry about,” Hannibal assures. “In the meantime, have you had breakfast yet?”

“I had a cup of coffee with the girls.”

“Then allow me to prepare a proper meal for us.”

“Hannibal, you don’t have to.”

“What was it you told me last night?” Hannibal reminds him with a quirk of his eyebrows, motioning for Will to follow as he leads the way to his kitchen.

The kitchen is much neater that it was the last time Will saw it, something the professor comments on.

“Yes, I heard something of my predecessor. I believe cats were mentioned?”

“She was a bit of a collector.”

“The term you are looking for, I think, would be hoarder,” Hannibal comments with a coquettish simper. Will’s eyes drift away timidly, settling on several reasonably-sized boxes sat atop the counter, which Will assumes to be filled with kitchen items.

“I was trying to be polite. When’d you have time to get breakfast stuff anyway?”

“I made a quick trip into town earlier.” Hannibal pulls one of the boxes towards himself, finding a loose corner in the tape and pulling it off in a long strip. Curious hands reach in, emptying out pots and pans of varying sizes.

“Damn, how early did you wake up?” After the question comes out, Will shakes his head at himself with a rueful look on his face. “Sorry, I’m prying. Ignore me. Need a hand?”

Hannibal waves the offer off, not unkindly. “My hours are still a bit off from travel. I came to here from France, where I was meeting with an old colleague of mine.” He migrates over to the fridge, pulling out an unlabeled carton of eggs, butter, and chives before he moves to his pantry to retrieve lemons, salt, and several measuring cups. Hannibal pointedly ignores Will’s raised brow.

“Sounds like you’re well-travelled.” At the intrigued look he receives, Will offers a shrug. “Your accent certainly isn’t French, Dr. Lecter.”

“Fairly well-travelled. I was born and raised in Lithuania before attending school in France and Italy. May I be so bold to note that your accent hints at upbringings further south?”

“Louisiana, though I’m surprised you caught it. Most people don’t notice it until I tell them.”

“It’s a familiar lilt, yet one I was unable to place. From where in Louisiana do you hail?”

“Nola mostly, though I moved around a lot as a kid. My father and I were not very… well-off and his work was never stable,” Will admits. He’s not sure what prompts him to disclose those details, but he shrugs it off and stares pointedly at the cabinets above Hannibal’s head. “What’s for breakfast, Dr. Lecter?”

Hannibal gives him a shark-toothed grin. “Never ask. Spoils the surprise.”

Breakfast ends up being a poached egg and asparagus toast with lemon-chive beurre blanc. Hannibal complains about having been unable to make the English muffins himself, but Will thinks it’s just about the most delicious breakfast he’s even eaten.

“Seriously, how are you not pleased with this?” Will asks, setting his fork down on his now-empty plate and dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “It was so good, Hannibal. I don’t know how you managed it.”

Hannibal chuckles lightly. “Mostly determination. It would have been utterly rude for me to go without thanking you in some way.”

“You know what they say about a man’s heart and his stomach,” Will jokes, scratching the back of his head lightly. Hannibal’s eyes capture the way Will’s nose crinkles when he’s unsure of himself, a movement he’s observed with constant reoccurrence in the half-day he’s been acquainted with the man.

“’One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well’,” Hannibal volleys, taking up Will’s plate and bringing it with his own to the sink.

“Someone’s a fan of Virginia Woolf, I take it?” Will asks, leaning forward with his elbows braced on top of the counter. Hannibal tilts his head in acquiescence.

“You are not incorrect,” he allows with that ever-frustrating half-smile of his.

Neither of them are fond of dilly-dallying so they almost immediately jump into work. With all the intricate and incredibly heavy furniture the psychiatrist owns, Will has no idea how Hannibal planned to go about this on his own. Most of the pieces can only be moved if both of them take one end and carry it together.

The day starts passing much slower than Will thought it would, and his shoulder begins a throb a dull ache as they progress.

By the time Mischa arrives, Will is somewhat hyperventilating, hands resting on his knees. I must paint a fucking great picture, he thinks morosely. He doesn’t even notice the car slide into the driveway, too busy wallowing in his misery.

“You’re not regretting helping, I hope?” a female voice asks just as a car door slams shut. Will turns, startled by the unexpected voice and the question posed. He looks at her - porcelain skin, blonde hair, and enviable cheekbones - and knows immediately that this is Hannibal’s sister. The accent might also be another giveaway.

“Regretting not staying in shape, I think,” Will amends with a turning of his mouth that more resembles a grimace than a smile.

“Don’t we all? I’m Mischa, the better of the Lecter siblings.”

“Will. I’d shake your hand or something, but I’m a bit disgusting at the moment,” he replies, wiping away the droplets of sweat that threaten to drip into his eyes.

“It’s the thought that counts. Not to sound like I haven’t appreciated this lovely interaction, because I have, but where’s Hannibal?”

“I think he said something about ‘ensuring the artwork is still intact’? I don’t know, I was too busy trying not to pass out.”

Mischa snorts, pushing her bangs from her face as she peers at the house through narrowed eyes. “That sounds like him, the pretentious bastard. Excuse me.” With that, she’s making her way to the house with a glint in her eye that reminds Will eerily of the psychiatrist inside. Sighing, he turns to the truck, sending it a scathing glare as if the vehicle has deeply insulted him. Let’s get this over with.

Will is inside the back of the truck preparing to lift a box labelled Miriam when he hears Hannibal clomping up the metal ramp. Though so far he’s been nearly impossible to read, the look on the psychiatrist’s face makes Will pause for a moment– Hannibal’s nostrils flare and his shoulders are stiff, making him seem almost hostile – and his hands slip from the box uselessly, brow furrowing in confusion.

“Not trying to pry or anything but… is everything all right?” he asks, eye’s searching Hannibal’s face. To Will’s displeasure, Hannibal can appear incredibly inscrutable when he wants to.

“Perfectly fine, Will. Come, we are almost finished.”

There really isn’t any way for Will to press without being intrusive, so he drops the matter and an hour later, the truck is completely empty. Afterwards the two men sit on Hannibal’s couch, both winter bear tired and more than a little sore as they nurse their respective bottles of water.

Will hasn’t seen Mischa since her arrival, but he settles on insouciance in the matter.

Of course, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t stumble into the door between nonchalance and intrusiveness before accidentally tumbling through it.

“Where’s Miriam? I haven’t seen her all day.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Hannibal’s demeanor changes once again, morphing into something closed-off and masked by false winsomeness. 

“She is spending time with her grandmother at the moment,” Hannibal says, taking a deep breath and tilting his head back, closed eyes pointed towards the ceiling. “I thank you for all the help you’ve provided, Will. It’s been a pleasure.”

Will knows a dismissal when he hears one. He hesitates before standing and is forced to suppress a groan as his shoulder throbs from exertion. “Likewise, Hannibal. Hopefully I’ll see you soon.” Hannibal gives a silent nod, eyes remaining closed and Will imagines for a moment that Hannibal looks at him, eyes glinting and lips curving into that impossible smile he’s so fond of sending his neighbor.

The image fades fast and Will leaves, pulling the door shut behind him.

===

The next time Will and Hannibal cross paths, a month has passed. An unconscionable amount of time, if you ask me. Completely excessive. But we cannot blame the stars of our tale for this, as circumstance and timing can each carry a bit of guilt as well.

That being said, Will believes that the world must’ve been plotting against him, considering the ‘where’ and ‘how’ of their next encounter.

Will’s students are filing out of the lecture hall, the room filled with the sound of echoing conversations and a tumult of footsteps, when he spots the man. He stands with a familiar and imposing figure at his side and Will can’t fault himself for the animus that crawls just beneath his skin. The pair approach and Will bristles when Hannibal’s companion attempts to lock eyes with him.

“Jack,” he greets curtly, adjusting his frames so that the top rims break any channel for Jack’s prodding gaze. The look on Hannibal’s face borders on complacency, Will thinks, though he can’t imagine why. He’s pulled away from that particular train of thought when Jack offers a hand to him.

“Mr. Graham, it’s good to see you,” the agent says as Will shakes his hand. Will can’t say that the feeling is mutual, so he allows silence to voice his displeasure. “I know you’re a busy man, but we – Hannibal and I – would like to have a quick word with you, if that’s okay.”

“Go right ahead, Jack,” Will says, fingers gliding over several of the papers on his desk absentmindedly. He catches Hannibal eyeing the movement and stops, moves his hand into his pocket instead.

“Do you mind?” Jack says, reaching out a hand. Before he can stop him, Jack is shifting Will’s glasses up the bridge of his nose, leaving the passage for eye contact open once again. Never let it be said that Jack isn’t direct. Will’s eyes glimpse fleetingly at Hannibal, slightly disconcerted with the psychiatrist’s uncharacteristic silence. He can’t help but feel a slough a dread just in the pit of his stomach as Hannibal silently watches, as if gauging his possible reactions. “Still got your horse hitched to a teaching post,” Jack comments, breaking him out of his reverie. “You’ve mentioned that it can be difficult for you to be sociable.”

Still subtle as a brick, Jack. He doesn’t take the baiting, forcing a mask of equanimity. “I’m just talking at them. I’m not listening to them. It’s not social.”

“Empathy is a social tool,” Hannibal intones. “It requires communication to a certain degree, no matter how diminutive.”

Will blinks slowly, looking up at Hannibal while trying to maintain an absence of eye contact. So finally he speaks. His eyes settle on the psychiatrist’s forehead. “I can empathize with anybody. It has less to do with socializing than an active imagination.”

Jack smiles at that, leans in.

“Can I borrow your imagination?”

===

“Do you have trouble with taste?” Hannibal asks, peering at the photos Jack has splayed out in his office. Will glares at the floor. Should’ve known better than to try to make friends with a shrink, Graham.

“My thoughts are often not tasty,” he shoots, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. He can feel the weight of Hannibal’s eyes on him, but he ignores the sensation. It’s hard to reconcile the fact that this is the same man whose presence he’d rapidly felt almost comfortable in.

That was a month ago, and that sense of amity has all but vanished.

“Nor are mine,” Hannibal replies as he walks over, taking the seat beside Will’s. Will is familiar with the idea that proximity builds harmony, but it’s an old trick, not to mention obvious to a great degree. Not something he’d think Hannibal would resort to so quickly. “No effective barriers.”

“I build forts,” Will deadpans, pointedly ignoring the psychiatrist’s presence at his side.

“Associations come quickly.”

“So do forts.”

“There are only three people with whom I’ve been able to observe you establish eye contact. Two of them live under the same roof as you,” Hannibal observes.

“Who was the third?”

“Myself.”

Will doesn’t have to be looking at Hannibal to know he’s adopted that irritatingly mysterious grin once more, the one that makes the empath want to rip the skin mask away from his face. He decides to keep their conversation on course – there’s a place for everything and the place for that particular conversation is not in front of their quasi-boss.

“Eyes are distracting,” Will sighs. “You see too much. You don’t see enough. And it’s hard to focus when you’re thinking ‘those whites are really white,’ or ‘they must have hepatitis,’ or ‘is that a burst vein?’. So… I try to avoid eyes whenever possible.”

Hannibal will not be so easily deterred. “I imagine what you see and learn touches everything else in your mind. Your values and decency are present yet shocked at your associations, appalled at your dreams. No forts in the bone arena of your skull for things you love.”

There’s no metallic clang as the trap closes around Will’s ankles, only a sickening lurch in the pit of his stomach as he turns to look at Jack. Jack, who has stayed completely silent during the exchange. Like some sick tag-teaming match, they’ve managed to corner him and Will is only now pulling the wool out from in front of his eyes.

===

Elise Nichols is dead. She’s dead, but she isn’t afraid to show her face in the middle of the night.

Will finds himself startled from sleep, sweating and terrified. Quietly, so as not to wake the girls, he grabs a change of clothes and treads carefully to the bathroom. Will looks into the mirror and has to blink to make sure that his reflection is true, that the mess he sees is actually him and not an apparition that’s followed him from his dreams. His hair curls and sticks against his forehead, drenched in nightsweat. Slowed by exhaustion, a soaked-through t-shirt and pair of boxers are shed and replaced and the removed clothing is chucked into the hamper.

When Will exits the bathroom, Abigail is there waiting for him, Chester sitting by her like a loyal, groggy sidekick.

“Go back to bed, Abbi,” he orders, trying to wipe the lethargy from his eyes.

“You were crying in your sleep, dad. Are you okay?” The space between her forehead crinkles and Will thinks back to Molly, the way she’d look at him whenever he came home from work looking like the victims he was supposed to be helping, haggard and hollow-eyed.

“I’m fine, kiddo. Just a little keyed-up. Go ahead and hit the hay, all right?”

She looks reluctant, prying eyes studying him scrupulously. “I don’t like when you work with him. He makes you… he makes you sad and I don’t like it because it makes me sad, too.”

“Jack’s just trying to help people, Abbi. Just like I am. Listen, we can talk about this more in the morning, but you really need to get some sleep. Scoot.”

Sighing, Abigail pulls her father into a tight embrace, small arms squeezing around his waist like a vice. He has to pry her arms away to get her to go to bed.

===

Cassie Boyle is dead. She’s dead and the crows tear into her with fervor. The science team bat at the ravenous crows, shooing them away from the tableau set before them.

“They’re calling him ‘The Minnesota Shrike’,” Jack tells him.

“Like the bird?”

“Shrike’s a perching bird,” Jimmy chirps. “Impales mice and lizards on thorny branches and barbed wire. Rips their organs right out of their bodies, then puts them in a little birdie pantry and eats ‘em later.”

How apropos.

“Can’t tell if it’s sloppy or shrewd,” Jack says with a moue of distaste. Will looks at Cassie, perched on her stag head with the antlers that act as her deathbed, and feels a ripple of disgust that is not his own. There’s no reverence, not like what Elise had. There’s no care. Cassie is just a pig deserving of the sloppy end she received.

“He wanted her to be found this way. It’s the homicidal equivalent of fecal smearing. It’s petulant. I almost feel like he’s mocking her.” He pauses, stumbles over his own thought process. “Or he’s mocking us…”

“Where’d all his love go?” Jack asks, almost to himself as he stares at the vicious atrocity being presented to them. It almost feels like a taunt thrown in an attempt to get a rise.

“I know something you don’t…” a hollow voice whispers, something like a lost thought in the back of his head making itself known.

“Whoever tucked Elise into bed didn’t paint this picture,” Will tells Agent Crawford, flexing his fingers inside his gloves, the latex stretching with the movement. His skin feels like it’s pulled tight over his bones and he struggles to differentiate between foreign emotions and those that are his own. This isn’t the type of work he can bring home with him at the end of the day. Not when he has two girls he needs to go home to and care for.

Zeller looks up from where he’s been prodding inside Cassie’s chest cavity. “He took her lungs. I think she was still alive when he cut them out.”

===

“An intelligent psychopath, particularly a sadist, is hard to catch. There’s no traceable motive. There’ll be no patterns. He may never kill like this again!” Will snaps, ducking under the crime scene tape. He needs to get away – away from the wind-chaffed girls and ravenous crows and spilt blood. “Have Dr. Lecter work up a psychological profile. You seem to be impressed with his opinion.”

===

“Who do these young women remind you of?”

Will keeps his eyes pointedly settled on his plate as he pushes the protein scramble around with a fork. “You already know who.”

“You are more disturbed by this than you let on, Will,” Hannibal tells him. He tucks neatly into his food, years of manner and etiquette embedded into him. Will presents a more careless image as he eats, as though half his mind is elsewhere. “It does no harm to give voice to your concern. In fact, many find it helpful to do so, to have their feelings validated.”

“This really isn’t something I want validated, Dr. Lecter,” Will shoots back.

“I feel as though we have taken a step back,” Hannibal admits, setting his fork down and granting Will his undivided attention.

Will Graham is underwhelmed.

“I liked you because you were the first shrink who talked to me without trying to get inside my head. That’s changed. End of story.”

“You’ve had bad experiences with psychiatrists in the past.”

“You could say that. I’m- I’m not a patient. I’m the cadaver that young med students prod at and clumsily attempt to diagnose.”

“You are no cadaver, Will, and I am not here to diagnose you. Uncle Jack is worried about you. I’m here to keep both yours and his mind at ease. I think he sees you as a fragile little tea-cup, the finest china used for only special guests.”

This gives Will pause. “How do you see me?”

“The mongoose I want under the house when the snakes slither by.” Hannibal takes up his fork once more, uses it to gesture towards his companion’s plate. “Finish your breakfast.”

===

Garrett Jacob Hobbs waits for Will and Hannibal to enter the house before he slits his own throat. Arterial spray catches Will’s face and the side of Hannibal’s before he collapses, gurgling as blood bubbles around his neck.

“See?” the dead man whispers with a cruel smirk. “See?”

Later, they find out that Hobbs had schizophrenia. He’d stopped taking his prescription and had fallen victim to the bitter voices in his head, killing innocent girls and leaving a trail broken families in his wake.

===

“The reason you currently ‘used to’ work homicide is you didn’t have the stomach for pulling the trigger. You just pulled the trigger 10 times!” Jack reasons days later, sounding dangerously close to begging. Will, ready to snap at the man once more, stops short.

“Wait, so Psych Eval’s not a formality?” Will asks, eyebrows knitting in confusion.

“No, it’s so I can get some sleep at night,” Jack tells him, glancing over at Alana fleetingly. “Will, I asked you to get close to the Hobbs thing. I need to know you didn’t get too close. You’ve got two little girls to go home to. I know that. Just… have a conversation with Dr. Lecter.

“He was there. He knows what you went through,” Alana pleads.

“But-“

“Will,” Jack interrupts, looking just as tires as Will feels. “Just go. Please.

===

“Is Hannibal your therapist?” Marissa asks over dinner one evening. Will pauses for a moment, fork halfway between his plate and his mouth, before biting off the piece of chicken and washing it down with a sip of milk. Abigail’s gaze shifts from her father to her sister and back again.

“He’s a psychiatrist, not a therapist. And no, he isn’t. We just both work for Jack now,” Will tells her. “Why do you ask?”

Marissa shrugs. “I mean, last time you were seeing a therapist-“

“Issy!” Abigail hisses, glaring.

“Abbi!” Marissa says in a mocking imitation of his sister.

“Hush and eat,” Will orders them both. The rest of dinner is spent in silence that night.

===

“You are very tense, Will.” Hannibal observes. Will taps his fingers against his armrest anxiously, regretting his decision to sit down. He feels trapped under the doctor’s gaze, like a circus animal under the watch of its trainer.

“I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. Therapy’s never worked on me.”

“This isn’t therapy, Will. I’m not your psychiatrist and you are not my patient,” Hannibal reminds him gently.

“Fundamentally, it’s hard for me to believe that. We’re sitting across from one another like you do with your patients every day, several times a day. The setting is the same. It’s therapy.”

“Would a change in setting make this easier?”

“No. Yes. I’m not sure. I… I don’t think anything can really make this ‘easy’, per se.”

Hannibal stands, buttoning his jacket as he approaches the large cabinet set against the far wall. “Would a glass of wine help?”

For the first time that day, Will manages something akin to a smile. “Is that really ethical, Dr. Lecter?”

“I’m not your doctor, Will. Red or white?”

“Red would be nice.”

Will really shouldn’t be surprised that Hannibal stores his wine in crystal decanters. He watches how Hannibal’s hands are as steady and swift, they don’t tremble or shake. Surgeon’s hands Hannibal catches his companion eyeing him as he pours and offers a friendly smile. “You are lost in thought,” he observes, grabbing both glasses by their stems as he carries them over.

“Not intentionally,” he says, taking the glass Hannibal offers and immediately taking a small sip. “This is really good.”

“A favorite of mine. Cabernet Sauvignon, a wine of great character and depth, not to mention its diversity. People grow these grapes all over the globe in many varying climates and they thrive. The wine itself is fragrant, but not overly so.” As if to demonstrate, he demurely scents the wine, watching as Will watches him with careful eyes. “If you’re careful enough, you can just catch the hints of cedar and tobacco.” He pauses, a contemplative look on his face. “You are no longer tense.”

“You’ve done a good job of distracting me – with alcohol nonetheless.”

“My intentions are nothing but noble, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Will can’t help but chuckle at that. “My honor is safe in your hands?”

“I would not have it any other way.”

“And I’m going to use that as a segue. How’s Miriam?” Will asks, sipping at his wine as his eyes flash down to Hannibal’s hands once again, his fingers pressed against the delicate stem of his glass, as if holding it too tightly might cause it to crack and shatter into his palms. Realizing that he’s fixating a bit too obviously, Will averts his eyes, cheeks heating with embarrassment.

“She’s well, thank you. And your girls? Are they aware of the nature of your work?” Hannibal asks, seemingly oblivious to Will’s wily musings.

“They do. I thought about hiding it for a bit, but Abigail is very perceptive – she’d figure out if I were hiding something.”

“She is much like her father in that respect.”

Will chuckles lightly, nodding his head. “That she is. It shocks me sometimes, how much I see myself in her.”

“How do you feel, knowing how similar she is to you? She is wildly intelligent for her age, just as I imagine you were.

Will looks up at Hannibal over his glass, an amused look on his face. “Be careful, Dr. Lecter. You’re starting to sound like a shrink.” Then he ducks his head with a half-hearted shrug. “Honestly, sometimes it shocks me. I know it shouldn’t, but seeing her and Marissa in front of me, seeing that they really are a part of me… it seems a bit surreal at times. I still can’t wrap my head around it. When I was younger, I never wanted kids – I liked children, liked the idea of having my own to take care of and raise, of leaving behind something of myself when I die, but…”

“You were reluctant to reproduce for fear of passing on your pathologies.”

“Yeah, that.” He coughs a bit awkwardly, finishes off the rest of his wine before setting the empty glass on the side table. “And then with all of what’s… going on with Jack, I feel like that still might affect them now. They’ve noticed a change in me – Abigail even caught me right after a night terror and told me I should stop.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It could be.”

“Shouldn’t you be encouraging me to keep at it? That’s what Jack would want you to do,” Will mutters, dragging his teeth over his bottom lip.

“Jack would chain you up in the offices of the BAU if he thought it would help people, Will. But it isn’t my job to help Jack help people, it’s my job to help you.”

===

Working up the nerve for this conversation had been difficult, but necessary. If he wants to be a dad – a good one, fully present in his children’s lives – then this is something he needs to do. Hannibal was right about that, and Will is well aware of it. “I can’t keep going like this, Jack. I’m not cut out for this work. I go to dark places and I can’t risk bringing something back with me.”

“We’re helping people here.” Jack snaps. His hands tighten over the edge of his desk, jaw tight with the fury that churns inside of him “You’re just going to let them go?”

“No, because you’re here, and your team is here. You can manage without me.”

“We’re better with you. These people and their families are relying on you, Will.”

“So are Marissa and Abigail and, at the end of the day, they’re all that matters to me.”

===

The next time Hannibal catches sight of Will is when they both simultaneously head out to check their mailboxes. Both are bundled up against the chill that winter has brought along with her, Will with the addition of his lecture bag slung over one of his shoulders. The Graham household has been well-decorated for the upcoming holiday, strings of lights woven around the house and a few trees, bathing the yard in a soft technicolor glow. Hannibal eyes the house with a half-smile as he approaches the mailboxes on the edge of the road.

“I noticed you’ve kept up with the flowers Abbi planted,” Will comments in lieu of a greeting, using the back of his hand to shut his mailbox while he flips through his small stack of mail.

“I quite like them, though I hadn’t been aware of who put them there,” Hannibal replies, opening his own mailbox and emptying it of its contents. “You must give her my thanks.”

Will finally looks up from the envelopes in his hands, a contemplative look on his face.

“Hannibal, do you have plans for Christmas Eve?” he asks, pulling his lower lip between his teeth for a moment. “I know now that you’re living closer to your family, you’re probably gonna spend a lot of time with them, but the girls and I usually go all out for dinner the on the 24th that way we don’t have to worry about it on Christmas Day. I thought maybe you’d like to join us.”

“I’d be honored, Will, thank you.” He pauses thoughtfully for a moment, tucking one of his hands into his pocket. “I’m afraid that, in the time I’ve lived here, I have not had the time to explore the town here much. Might I be so bold to ask you to show me around?”

Coming from anyone else, the words might have sounded specious, but coming from Hannibal, they are spoken to be taken at face-value. “Sure. I’m planning on heading out early tomorrow, but-“ Will grabs a random envelope from Hannibal’s bundle of mail, pulling a pen from his bag to scribble across the back of the stolen paper, “-meet me at this address around eleven and I’m all yours.” He hands it back and Hannibal takes the proffered address with a smile, his eyes tracing over the writing before he shuffles it back into his bundle of mail.

He tries to meet the professor’s eyes and finds himself pleasantly surprised when the man allows it. “I look forward to tomorrow, my dear Will.”

===

Hannibal enters the small (and delightfully warm) coffee shop and takes a breath, takes in the nutty scent of freshly-brewed coffee that hangs in the air. It is a pleasant scent that mingles with the sweetness of breads and other baked goods that the establishment offers. Approaching the counter, the doctor is immediately greeted by a pleasant young woman.

“Hey there! How can I help you today?”

“A simple black coffee will be fine, thank you.”

“All right, will that be all?”

He pays quickly and claims a table while he waits for his order to be served. In the meantime, Hannibal looks the shop over. It’s cozy and… intimate, decorated for the season with string lights and red bows. Several small evergreens decorate the counters and jars of candy canes serve as centerpieces on the tables.

He can see why Will would like it here.

Speaking of the man.

The bell above the door tingles when he enters, pausing just inside to take in the warmth and scan the room. Hannibal lifts a hand and Will smiles when he spots him.

“Hannibal!” one of the workers calls, setting a cup on the counter with the label facing out. Perfect timing.

Hannibal stands from his chair and makes his way towards his companion for the day, whose cheeks have cone rosy from the chill of the winter air. The sight is one that Hannibal finds immensely pleasing.

“Will,” he greets when he reaches the younger man, placing a hand on his shoulder and giving a gentle squeeze. The look of pleasant surprise that adorns Will’s face at the gesture causes Hannibal to offer a smile of his own.

“I’m sorry I’m late, there was a bit more traffic than I anticipated.”

“No apology necessary, Will,” Hannibal assures. Curious, he decides to test a few boundaries, grabbing Will’s hands between his own. The empath gives a small jolt as warm palms encase his own, and Will’s fingers are like ice. “Have you no gloves?”

“Chester got to them last week,” he explains as Hannibal tsks, using his palms rub warmth back into his companion’s extremities. “I know, I’ll need to invest in some soon. I just keep forgetting. Your coffee’s gonna get cold.”

Hannibal’s movements pause for a moment, his attention having been so deflected that he’d completely forgotten about his drink. “Yes, it is.” Slowly, almost reluctantly, he releases Will’s hands from his grasp. “Order something warm, Will, and I shall reclaim our table.”

When Will finally sits down to their table, the redness in his cheeks has faded but the subtle upturning of his lip is not. “You’re in quite the good mood,” Hannibal notes, taking a sip of his coffee. Not as hot as he usually takes it, but it’ll do.

“I’ve allowed myself to stop feeling guilty for stopping. It’s helped a lot.”

“No more nightmares?”

“They still come, but not nearly as often.”

“No need for forts.”

Will taps his knuckles against the wooden table, eyes shining with mirth. “No forts. Associations still come quick, thoughts that aren’t mine invade, but they’re better.”

“There are holes in the floor of the mind, pitfalls that hide in the dark. You’ve pulled yourself from the work and therefore shined a light on the entrapments.”

“You’re very fond of purple prose, aren’t you? I’m starting to doubt that English was your 3rd language,” Will jests. Hannibal sends him a fond look as maroon eyes search grey ones. Will doesn’t flinch away from the eye contact and the psychiatrist can’t help but feel a swell of pride at this.

“I am fond of metaphor, only because it evokes a clear image in the mind of the listener and promotes an unmistakable understanding.”

“Some might argue that simplicity works the same way.”

Hannibal leans forward slightly, inwardly rejoicing when Will’s eyes follow his. “Simplicity isn’t nearly as engaging, Will.”


End file.
